


But Not To Have It, You Haven't Lived

by FortLauderTales



Series: These Things Are Not Meant To Be Left Behind [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brooding, Friendship, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-28 13:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortLauderTales/pseuds/FortLauderTales
Summary: Castiel's Grace withers, and all he's left with are unendingly frustrating prickles of emotion. No longer an angel, barely a human, and struggling to make sense of it all, he's eons old and yet so new.





	1. Under The Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this in August of 2015 but never posted it for one reason or another. I had started watching Supernatural earlier that year and started writing this fic as a way to keep myself from falling into a rabbit hole of reading Destiel (spoiler alert: I failed hard).
> 
> Lightly beta-ed, so I take full responsibility for all mistakes.

For such ancient, mystical, powerful creatures, Angels are pretty basic. They are created, given a task, and off they go to accomplish it. And where feelings are concerned, well, angels don’t have much of a spectrum. It boils down to satisfaction or dissatisfaction, and the most elasticity in that extends to feeling “quite satisfied" or “quite dissatisfied". Sure, there are tingles: tendrils of a “more” that most of them can never quite explain. This is especially true for those who have inhabited a vessel for long periods. Human emotions are those tingles, but amplified beyond reason. Beyond control. Fundamental feelings of love, hate, desire, and disgust are messy things and hard to rein in, fluid one moment and stingingly sharp the next. They creep in slowly sometimes, like the sunlight at dawn, or they attack unexpectedly with zero warning. They are, as Ainsley down at the convenience store put it, “the actual worst”. On the whole, Angels shrug these tingles off lest they condescend to admit that they share something with these unexceptional creatures: humans.

It surprised Castiel, then, to realize how much more similar Angels and humans were to each other than he had thought. And the more he settled into humanity the less he liked these...feelings. All of these tendrils that had always tickled just below his consciousness grew into thick roots that pushed and bullied their way through to the surface, into his every waking thought and every damn dream. When he no longer felt the comforting velvet layer of peace that only vague satisfaction or dissatisfaction can bring, when he could no longer ignore every nagging prod of emotion that made itself known in how unmistakably human it was, that was when Castiel knew his Grace was finally and thoroughly gone.

The first time Castiel had noticed that something seemed different, that he couldn’t brush one of these prickly intrusions aside, was on a crisp October afternoon a week after he had decided to learn to cook. He could no longer move from one location to another with a mere thought. He had decided that the process of a “food run” was far too laborious and that he would much prefer to learn to cook, and so cut down the time between hunger and food in his mouth. Castiel, Dean, and Sam were about to "enjoy" Castiel's not thoroughly inedible first attempt at chicken. Sam and Dean had patiently waited while the angel took what seemed like an eternity figuring out the complexity of the oven's many settings (there’s a bake and there’s a broil and there are also knobs with temperatures and the chicken package does not tell you what to do about ANY of this). Sam and Dean killed time watching TV and downing a good many beers. By dinnertime, Sam was tipsy and Dean was loose and grinning, as if everything they said was the best joke he'd ever heard. Castiel didn’t even realize how the Winchesters’ chatter and his own focus on his experiment had him practically relaxed until Dean started on a story about a time that he went 150 miles out of his way during a hunt because he thought he might have a chance to reunite with Trisha, a particularly inventive cheerleader from one of the 15 high schools he had attended. Sam looked up with a start towards the kitchen, hearing the oven door slam shut and food being unceremoniously plopped onto plates. Dean, lost in his own story, absentmindedly followed Sam to the table, barely noticing Castiel’s reddening, knotted neck and grim countenance. Castiel, for his part, he felt as though an invisible hand was gripping his chest and pushing his blood forcefully through his body, his dissatisfaction growing, something prickly and pulsating replacing his vessel's heart, except not, because he's fairly sure the vessel--no, his body-- would not survive such a thing. 

After dinner, Castiel borrowed Sam's laptop, found the bookmarks that Dean had helped him set up and went to his favorite website: WebMD. Sam found him a half hour later, his head in his hands and one of his elbows on the space bar. Before Castiel could inform Sam that it looked like this time it was definitely probably a stroke, Sam closed the laptop, put a hand on one of Castiel's shoulders and gently informed him that it was only jealousy and that he would not die of it, as much as he might want to. Castiel was not relieved.


	2. Steepest Of Learning Curves

“Cas, Sam’s stuck in Duluth for another night and I wouldn’t leave you by yourself except we’re out of toilet paper and beer. I’ll be back as soon as I can, though. Ok man?”

Castiel looked up at Dean, his contempt for the idea barely masked by a forced look of acceptance. 

“Dean, I’ll be fine. I can manage on my own for an hour.” They both looked at Castiel’s leg, covered in a cast. Who knew that one of the first things to go when Grace leaves is basic coordination? While Castiel liked to blame his broken ankle on a particularly athletic vampire that had outrun him, they all knew he had tripped on his own feet as he ran out of the vamp’s victim’s office building. There was security footage and everything. Dean had guffawed, and even Sam let escape a small chortle when the brothers had found the footage before deleting it. Dean had complained that they could have won America’s Funniest Home Videos, but Sam looked at him pointedly and told him that “Cas has enough on his plate”, and so that was that. Priceless hilarity, gone forever.

Now, catching Dean’s uncertain expression, Castiel sighed, trying so very hard to keep desperation from creeping into his voice as he added, “You know I could just go with you. I...I don’t have to get out of the car, and--”

Dean interrupted Castiel, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look, buddy, I’m gonna level with you: If you come with me it’s going to take twice as long to get out of the house and back in. Plus the doc said you need to keep it elevated as much as possible. Just-- I promise, I’ll be right back. I’ll even bring you some pork rinds, huh? How about that?”

Castiel glared at Dean. Well, more accurately he glared at the back of Dean’s head, as his friend was already well on his way out of the room. He settled in to wait out the time on the bed with his leg extended and foot propped up. After 10 minutes of seething silently he sighed resignedly and reached for his cell phone. He might as well use this time to try to understand what Dean found so appealing about Angry Birds. After fruitlessly patting both sides of the bed, under the pillow, and as far as he could reach by his legs, Castiel finally lifted his eyes to the cabinet by the door which served as dresser, general crap holder, and...phone docking station. And his crutches? Leaning on the far side of the cabinet, right where Dean had left them after the last time he helped Castiel into his room.

"No. No, no, no. Oh, no, no, NO!" Castiel took a deep breath. He had patiently waited as generations of humans were born, grew old, and died. He had barely noticed the time pass as earthly wars were waged and won and bodies buried. He could wait the 50 more minutes until Dean came back. He could wait patiently in his bed. He had been an Angel Of The Fucking Lord and he did NOT need his fucking phone. 

Three more minutes passed. Five. Seven. What was taking Dean so long? Fifteen minutes. Seventeen...or was it Twenty-two? What if something had happened to Dean and he was trying to call Castiel RIGHT NOW? Did he even have the ringer on? Probably not. Well, that settled it. Castiel would have to get to that phone somehow. 

He pushed himself forward, keeping his injured ankle aloft as he slid toward the front end of the bed. Just a little more...if he...maybe if he bounced upward as he pushed himself up on his good leg, leaned his body forward, grabbed the phone, and pushed himself back using the cabinet to propel himself back to the bed. Yes. "Great plan, Cas." He mentally celebrated his victory, prematurely as it turned out, for his little bounce landed him just short of the cabinet and his already questionable balance failed him as the weight of his encased leg threw him further a-wobble, and he landed on the floor between bed and cabinet. 

He managed to at least roll himself onto his back and put prop his foot on the lip of the boxspring before Dean returned. "Hey man, sorry that took so long. There we no pork rinds. Not even in the back, but they did have-- Cas?" Dean's heart stuttered as he took in the empty bed, and he could swear that it fully stopped when he heard a forcedly nonchalant, gravelly "Hello, Dean," coming from the floor. 

It took all of Dean's practiced composure to not immediately drop his bags and whip out his phone. He barely resisted though he desperately wanted to send Sam an image of this prone ex-Angel, pretending that he wasn't embarrassed to the edge of utter humiliation. 

"C'mere, man, let me help you up." Dean said through barely suppressed laughter. Castiel pushed his hand away, his face red, his stomach churning, and his eyes small and averted from Dean's. "Cas, don't be stubborn. Dude! Cas! Stop!" 

Castiel was not making this easy for Dean who was at his limit for resisting laughter as his friend looked every bit like a shamed cockroach trying to scramble from its back to its front. Dean finally stopped asking and simply bent down and half helped/half carried Castiel back to his bed. By now, Castiel's insides were burning, every inch of his skin seemingly crawling with very irritated insects that threatened to burst through every pore.

Castiel now safely deposited on the bed, Dean looked at his friend, who was still refusing to look at him. A quiet, hurried "Thanks Dean" was quietly mumbled from what seemed like the depths of Castiel's chest. Dean's smile faltered as he understood, finally. Every human suffers a first humiliation, but most do so at a much younger age, the sting of such embarrassments easing with time and practice. A broken ankle on a hunt was not that embarrassing, injuries being common enough in that line of work. A quietly shared laugh about a freshly fallen Angel finding his own feet uncooperative was one thing. What it must feel like to first experience embarrassment in the body of a fully grown man, in the soul of an ancient being that is used to commanding respect and to moving precisely. Dean could only guess that Castiel was confused by this new experience. 

"Look, Cas. As far as I'm concerned, this never happened." Castiel looked slowly up into Dean’s face, his eyes skimming for any trace of a coming joke, or some promise of this being lorded over him in the future, but he found none of that. He saw, instead, compassion and a desire to comfort. Part of him wanted to hang onto that, call it pity, and sink further into his discomfort, but then Dean surprised him, sitting next to him on the bed, and Castiel could only look at him expectantly. 

Dean sighed, propped Castiel's foot up on the small mound of folded towels and sweatpants that doubled as a fat pillow, leaned back on the headboard next to his friend, and began, "First time I fell in front of anyone other than Sam or Dad, I was six, and it was at a park in front of a group of older kids the first time Dad let me out of his sight for more than two minutes since Mom died. I wanted to play on the high monkey bars because I wanted to prove what a tough kid I was to Dad and I wanted those kids to be like 'Hey, this Dean kid is so cool!' So up I go as high as I can reach and..."

And so Dean told Castiel every embarrassing story he could remember about himself, and a few of Sam of course. They sat like this for hours, Dean telling stories, and he and Castiel laughing, his own experience forgotten in the comfort of the bed and the warmth of Dean's eyes.


	3. What You Used To Be

Castiel threw his blade to the ground, its gleaming silver turning brown as the still wet and bloodied edge hit the dirty floor. He paced for a few moments, his breathing still labored, and he wiped a shaking hand over his face. An insistent thrumming in his ears, his pulse beating in time with every name he silently called himself. Sam and Dean watched in shock as Castiel continued his display, and quickly their arguing quieted, then ceased altogether. 

"Cas," Sam said, approaching Castiel cautiously. "It's ok. Look no one got seriously hurt. This is nothing that a few stitches won't take care of. I know you must be pretty freaked but I swear--"

"He's not freaked, Sam. He's pissed," Dean interrupted. 

Castiel stopped pacing and turned to the brothers, a dark look in his eyes. His voice shook as he tried to regain control of his emotions. 

"Why do you insist on bringing me on your jobs when you know that at this point I'm nothing more than a liability?", he asked, looking at Sam and Dean in turn. "I could have gotten you killed! I almost did get you killed, and you're talking about the next time? There won't BE a next time--"

"Cas, don't be stupid," Dean interjected, his own voice sharp with anger and frustration. "Of course you're coming next time. Only by then you'd better have your attitude under control, hm? You know what gets you killed faster than imperfect aim or being a little slow? Going into a fight thinking you're not going to win!"

"Oh, right, Dean. That's a brilliant plan. 'Give your weakest link a pep talk and a shove and he'll be useful again in no time.' What was it you called me once? In that diner in Oregon..." Castiel asked Dean mockingly, stroking his chin as if Dean's barb weren't seared into his memory. "'Baby in a trenchcoat', right? Well that's what I am now. I'm about as useful as a baby and now I don't even have a trenchcoat any more, so that leaves me at even more of a deficit, doesn't it?"

Dean sucked in a breath, his eyes going wide at the long-forgotten memory, and the realization that it hurt Castiel so much more than he had ever known. Dean’s shamefacedness didn’t last long before it circled back to anger, and he marched to where Castiel was standing and pushed him backwards. Castiel barely managed to stay upright as he took a hard and involuntary step back, his eyes large with surprise. Dean stepped towards Castiel again, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him up so that their faces were only inches apart. Both men breathed heavily, angrily, angry eyes meeting and locking, daring each other to move or look away.

Dean's voice was low and menacing as he finally broke the tense silence. "When you're done with your little pity party, you meet us at the car, and not a second sooner." He pushed Castiel away, shaking his head with a grim expression. "I can't even look at you while you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, so shake it off and get ready to keep going. Life doesn't stop because you're not perfect. You don't quit this job just because you're human and things are harder than you're used to. And you don't give up because you have a moment of helplessness. I won't let you." Dean held Castiel's gaze, which now wavered between an anger and disbelief. Dean turned and walked away, exchanging a charged look with Sam, who looked between Castiel's slowly slumping shoulders and his brother's retreating form.

Sam huffed out a breath, looking away from Dean as he made his way to Castiel's side. "Look, man," Sam began, weighing his words as he looked at the ground. "Dean's right. I can't imagine the extent of what you're going through, but I can kinda relate." 

Castiel looked at Sam quizzically, but let him continue. "When I stopped using demon blood to, y'know...'enhance' my hunting abilities, there was a long while where I felt like I was just slowing everything down. I felt like everything was so much harder and that I was a burden for not being as strong and powerful as I used to be." 

Sam paused, not sure whether to continue. Castiel looked away, wiping his still shaking palms on the sides of his jeans, but nodded in encouragement, and Sam went on. "I was stronger for a little while and then I was back to being regular old Sam Winchester and boy it sucked," Sam said with a forced laugh. "I know it can't compare to being an Angel and then not being an Angel. I get that. I just want you to know that it's OK to be frustrated and, well, even to feel helpless. But you have to pick yourself back up, Cas. We don't think less of you for being a regular guy. And no matter what my idiot brother may have said ten years ago, you're not useless. Not ever. If you decide that this isn't the life you want for other reasons, we'll understand. We'll support the shit out of you, I swear. But don't quit because you had a bad day or two."

Castiel stood, still and pensive, all of the fire that had seemed hot enough to consume him and them and the whole damn county finally ebbing. Sam patted his shoulder gently started towards the Impala. He stopped a couple of yards away and turned back to Castiel. 

"Cas," Sam said gently but firmly, getting Castiel's attention, "We never won't want you with us." 

The men nodded at each other, and Sam continued walking. Castiel let out a breath, watching as Sam got into the shotgun seat. From where he stood he could see the brothers exchange a few hushed words, and Dean quickly look over to him and just as quickly cut his eyes back to a fascinating bit of squashed bug on the windshield. Castiel lifted his head to the sky and closed his eyes. He felt spent, exhausted in a way he hadn't known he could feel, as if his anger and helplessness had come like a hurricane and left his insides in too many bits to pick up. He let friends' words sink in, and finally he stooped to picked up his blade. He thought of the many millenia this blade had accompanied him, and of all the fights he had won with it, most of them handily, almost easily. 

He looked at his hands, covered in scars and callouses that only a few months ago he would have been able to think away. He thought of Dean's hands and how much good those strong but fragile things had managed to do, all without the help of extraordinary power or even the slightest bit of Grace. He lifted his eyes one more time, to the clouds that covered the darkening sky, to the Heaven he had left behind when he chose to accept this humanness as his existence. 

Castiel felt more than saw both brothers watching him carefully wipe his blade with the bottom of his ruined overshirt as he walked slowly towards the Impala. He opened the door to the back seat and slid in, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light as he took off his overshirt and used it to wrap the angel blade. He held the awkward bundle on his lap, gently clasping where the handle would be, his voice resolute as he addressed the Winchesters. "We'll need to stop somewhere so I can purchase a new knife. I'll need something more...practical," he lifted his eyes to meet Dean's in the rearview mirror, "For next time."

Dean looked at Sam, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he relaxed visibly, releasing the dread that had started building a nest out of every one of his nerves. 

"Yeah," Dean said, looking over his shoulder to Castiel. "Yeah, we can do that." Dean turned to face forward again, and Sam smiled openly as he relaxed, resting on the passenger door. Castiel let his body mold itself to the shape of the seat and leaned his head back, wondering whether it would be better to store the angel blade with the trenchcoat or if it would be better to get a separate box. It didn't matter, really. Not when your loved ones didn't care whether you can wield it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two more chapters to go! They're mostly written but need a bit of TLC before they can be released upon the world.


	4. How Strange The Change From Major To Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is getting better at identifying and dealing with his human feels OH BOY!

Sam gently placed the last box in the backseat of the Impala. He shook his head for what felt like the thousandth time that morning as he walked back to the door that led from the bunker's garage back into the lower levels. He passed Castiel, who was making his way into the garage himself, a frown of concentration on his face as he muttered, "Deposit check, ID, application. Deposit check, ID, application. Deposit check..." 

Sam would have laughed if it weren't already taking everything he had in him to keep from running back to the car, grabbing every box and bag out of the backseat and trunk, and throwing them back into Castiel's room. He didn't know what could have happened after almost two years of living with the Winchesters contentedly, almost actually happily, that made Castiel start to act withdrawn and twitchy in the past couple of months, no longer meeting their eyes, his laughter replaced by distracted grunts. Castiel wasn't sleeping much and what little sleep he did get was not restful, that much they knew. His room was across from Dean's, and Dean had rushed to Castiel's door on more nights than he could keep track of in those months after hearing screams or sobs, or both on particularly bad nights. Castiel would wake up as soon as Dean opened the door, flipping on the lights, and saying Castiel's name, seldom venturing beyond the foot of the bed. At first Castiel would laugh it off, blaming his inability to tell bad dreams from reality, and Dean would roll his eyes with a bemused but sleepy smile before going back to his own room. Eventually, Castiel seemed to adjust to the nightmares, and nights in the bunker were rarely interrupted by anything other than Dean's usual bouts of insomnia or an untimely call for help with a hunt. Neither Sam nor Dean knew that it wasn't so much that his sleep was any less interrupted, but that Castiel had just become very good at crying more quietly, reliving the whole of his mistakes and his failings every night, as vivid as though they were happening again, no matter how much he knew it wasn't true. 

How could Castiel tell his little family that despite all of their care, all of their generosity and attention, that he couldn’t shake the shadows of their collected failures, that he couldn’t stop the scars of his mind from writing themselves on every inch of the bunker’s walls? Every hall, every room held a memory of a way in which his helplessness led to himself or someone he loved bleeding. With each nightmare Castiel’s despondency grew until it became an unnamed fourth inhabitant of the bunker, following him from room to room, holding his eyes open at night, every movement an effort with the weight of it pulling at his body. No amount of new, good memories seemed capable of erasing from his mind a vision of blood shed by any one of them on a library floor, a wall, in any one of a number of rooms. And however much he tried to make up for it by being of use now, he was very aware of the burden that a third person presented on already strained wallets, and he no matter how much time passed, he couldn’t stop feeling like a visitor who was seriously overstaying his welcome. Nothing felt like it was his own save for his mistakes. The clothes he wore, the food to which he helped himself, the very air he breathed, everything felt borrowed. 

He rarely ate with the Winchesters these days, preferring to take his meals by himself in his room, and going out for a walk or coming up with an errand when he used to instead sit with Sam and Dean talking or watching trash TV, or doing anything that would require spending time with them that didn't involve research or a hunt. Two months of Castiel vanishing before their very eyes, as if reverting to his Angel-times habit of disappearing on them, but in agonizing slow motion.

So when Castiel sat at the dinner table for the first time in almost eight weeks, his eyes on the napkin that he was tearing apart fiber by fiber as he announced that he had found a place "Not all that far in case I'm needed" and that he would be taking an indefinite break from hunting, no one was really surprised. That didn't stop Dean from standing so fast that his chair skidded behind him, stopped from toppling over when it hit the counter with a sharp "clack". It didn't stop him from glaring at Castiel in the heavy, tense silence. And when Castiel finally forced his eyes to meet Dean's, no amount of "should have seen this coming" could have stopped Dean from shoving roughly past Castiel as he stalked away from the kitchen, the fading sound of his boots marching away interrupted only by the slam of his door.

Sam wanted desperately to simply support his friend but couldn't help the question that arose unbidden in his mind but wouldn't bring himself to ask: Were he and Dean not enough? A year ago Castiel had decided to join the brothers on hunts less frequently and took on a part time job to help keep up with the expenses that added up fast with three grown men, and Sam fleetingly, uncharitably asked himself if Castiel had been planning his escape from them all along. 

He looked at Castiel, his face betraying none of his anger or confusion though each line on his face was an imploration, and Castiel spoke softly, apologetically. "Sam, I don't want you, either of you, to think this is about anything other than me. I know this is your home but these walls, they don't offer me the same comfort that they offer you. I have...there's so much with which I need to make peace, and I have to do it on my own."

Castiel met Sam's eyes and saw a reluctant understanding dawning. He waited patiently, letting him process all of this and knowing that he was quietly reeling. The tells were there: a huff of a sigh, a hand through his hair, a couple of taps on the table before leaning forward. Finally Sam said, "Cas, this is your life and I want to be here for you, but isn't this something we could all get through together? As a team? As a...as a family?"

Castiel only looked back down at his growing pile of napkin bits and said softly, "Sam, please. Just let me go." 

Sam's jaw tightened to keep anything, questions or pleas, from spilling forth and he nodded once. "When you're ready I'll help you move." 

It didn't feel right to Sam that at this point he knew more about what was happening than Dean did, though the fault there was Dean's alone for refusing to so much as hear Castiel out. There was nothing Sam could do about that, though, just as he knew there was nothing he could do, or should do, to keep Castiel here if this wasn't where he wanted to be. All he could do was help in the only way he could: by not standing in the way.

Castiel looked up in relief, thanked Sam, and stood from the table, depositing his pieces of napkin in the trash on his way back to his room. 

_______________________________

The car was packed, Sam waiting behind the wheel while Castiel steeled himself before knocking on Dean’s door. He hadn’t seen much of him in the week since announcing his intention to move out. Whether Dean had been avoiding him or Castiel had been too wrapped up in his preparations, he couldn’t really say. The one conversation of any substance they had tripped into (and no, “Hey pass the salt, will ya” does not count as conversation) had started off well enough. Both Castiel and Dean trying on tentative smiles, even going so far as to joke about the dinner Sam had attempted to make that night, as if you could just dump pureed spinach and carrots into meatloaf and no one would notice. 

“Oh, I sure as shit noticed, man. I’m never trusting him to make dinner again, that’s for damn sure,” Dean had said, leaning against the counter next to the stove where Castiel was trying to scrub cauliflower rice chunks off one of the burners, a souvenir from Sam’s attempt at a side dish.

Castiel laughed with Dean, a warmth that had been missing for weeks suffusing his core with a happiness in which he wanted to wrap himself but that, of course, did not survive his next sentence: “Well, feel free to assume my kitchen will be free of vegetable subterfuge.”

At that, Dean’s smile, teasing and easy until that moment, had faltered and Castiel cringed. He sighed dejectedly but continued scrubbing, even as Dean left the kitchen without another word. Castiel looked at the space where Dean had just stood and felt the heaviness that had been steadily lifting from his heart in the last few days, since he made his decision to move out, return in full force. But tempted as he was to follow Dean, he knew it was better not to, because Dean in this state was volatile, yes, but mostly because Castiel didn’t want to give any opening to be talked (or worse, to be guilted) out of moving out.

Now, as Sam patiently waited in the car, if he could bring himself to knock on Dean’s door, it would be their first real interaction since that day.

“When you’re done lurking out there just come in,” Dean said, not quite a shout but loud enough to startle Castiel, audible even over Castiel’s own heartbeat and Robert Plant intoning "I've really been the best, the best of fools". As he wrapped his hand, already damp with nervous sweat, around the doorknob and pushed the door open he wondered again at the human body’s capacity to reflect emotions in the most disgusting, watery ways. At least this time it wasn’t tears. 

“I was just stopping in to say goodbye. Sam and I are done packing the car. We’ll be headed out in a few minutes.” Castiel paused, not quite looking at Dean, though it was no sacrifice to keep his eyes leveled at Dean’s hands instead of his face. “You’re still welcome to join us. We could--”

“Nah, I got a call about a hunt out in Tulsa. Real basic crap, so don’t worry about it. Gotta stay and dig through lore to help Jody and Donna, so,” Dean shrugged and ended the sentence there, looking at Castiel as if daring him to speak again, doing an excellent job of mostly hiding the hope that the dare would be accepted.

“Dean, we haven’t really talked about it and--” he raised a hand in the air as Dean stood and opened his mouth to speak. Castiel, unwilling to be interrupted, closed his eyes before going on, “and I don’t want to leave like this, without telling you why.”

He opened his eyes as Dean’s mouth snapped closed, his face the familiar, taunting mask that has always worked well to convince monsters he’s unbreakable even as his pulse races and his heart fills with dread. He crossed his arms where he stood, and with carefully feigned nonchalance he motioned for Castiel to continue.

“I’ve been very happy here, Dean, or I had been, but as welcoming and understanding as you and Sam have been I need this. I’m tired. The past has me in its grip and fighting it has proven...exhausting. I can’t keep living like this, in a space where we’ve done so much damage to one another, surrounded by reminders of they ways in which I've hurt you, in a place that doesn’t belong to me. When I first moved in I had so much to learn about being a human that none of the rest mattered. I think once I started just living instead of surviving, all of these things that had been waiting in the back of my mind rushed to the surface and I...I don’t know how to deal with them, not while I feel like I’m suffocating in these walls. And I’ve never had a home of my own, a place into which I haven’t defaulted one way or another. It’s been gnawing at me for a long time now, knowing that everything I’ve ever had has belonged to someone else and I had no say in any part of it.”

Dean ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “So you’re pissed because you never got to pick a curtain? Or...what? You’re suddenly too good for thrift stores? Cas, you never even said anything! How was I-- how were we supposed to know you wanted more? Man, I--”

Castiel interrupted, angry that Dean chose to focus and hammer on the parts that were easier to deal with materially rather than so much as acknowledge that Castiel was drowning. “Dammit, Dean, I can’t breathe here. I barely sleep. Most days it’s a struggle to get out of bed. How can you pretend that existing should be enough? And I need something that is good and new and clean and mine because I made it happen. It’s not because what is here isn’t good enough. It’s because I need to get better and being here isn’t helping me. I need help. I need…” Castiel stopped, tired from putting the contents of his heart on a scale only to be weighed and found wanting. 

“I don’t mean for this to be a permanent separation, but believe me when I say it’s a necessary one.” He hesitated for a moment before forcing himself to look at Dean again. “My home is and will be open to you, Dean. I’m always glad of your presence. It’s the only reason I haven’t left sooner. And-- yes, I just needed you to know that.” 

He wished for many things in that moment, many impossible things, many ways in which the rest of this goodbye could play out, but decided to make do with the one he knew he could have. He stepped fully into the room to embrace a stunned Dean, whose breath hitched before wrapping his arms tight around Castiel. They held onto each other for what felt like an eternity but couldn't be more than a minute, enough for the next song to start on the laptop, and Castiel felt awash in relief and regretful that all of the other things he wanted to tell Dean had to wait, though Castiel knew that the wait might be worth it if he could reach more steady footing with himself first. Still his heart ached even as his pulse raced in anticipation of the freedom that awaited him.

Castiel walked to the door, stopping for a moment to look back at Dean, whose eyes were bright with unshed tears, but not giving voice to any objection that could keep Castiel from walking away. With a rueful smile and a small nod, Castiel headed towards the garage Plant's voice trailing mournfully behind, "Don't you hear it calling me the way it used to do". Sam asked him whether he was ready but, blessedly, asked nothing more.

Three hours later, Sam had painted the final sigil and Castiel had unpacked the final box. The place would need a coat or two of paint to cover the sigils, and the only furniture was an air mattress of dubious structural integrity, but already Castiel felt more at ease. There may be a past in these new rooms, in these walls, but it didn't matter because it was not Castiel’s, and all he could see was possibility. Sam, watched his friend smile broadly for the first time in months, taking in the whole of the studio apartment as one might admire a palace. He caught Castiel's eye and echoed his smile, though with a trace of sadness that he tried to hide for Castiel’s sake.

“Well, I guess that’s that for now, huh,” Sam asked, absentmindedly wiping his hands on a rag. “You okay for the night? I know we stopped for food on the way out here, but if you wanted something you didn't have to heat up I could run out for burgers or something.”

Castiel smiled softly at Sam. “Thank you Sam, but I’ll be fine. I think I really will.”

Sam huffed a laugh and embraced him, patting him soundly on the back. When he reached the doorway he turned and hesitated, playing with his keychain, now one key heavier. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like I don’t support what you’re doing although, Cas, you gotta believe I’m behind you no matter what, but I just want you to know that you always have a place with us. You’re always our family. We, um...if you wanted to come back you just say the word. Okay?”

Castiel nodded, his throat too tight for words, and thankfully Sam understood. With a final wave and a closing of the front door, Castiel was alone.

He turned to face his belongings, his cluttered new space, his secondhand things, the space smaller, much smaller than the bunker had been but still a yawning gap for being his and only his. Castiel felt a desperate loneliness fill his core, and his eyes filled with tears which he could now shed freely. Nerves sent his stomach plummeting, and he sat heavily on the pile of broken down boxes. He covered his mouth, his heart beating faster, and making a mental list of all of the things he would now need. None of these things stopped the tingle in his skin, his veins alight with excitement and anticipation. Castiel was overwhelmed, confused, over his head, and the absurd thought made a home in his mind that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Meatloaf with finely chopped spinach and carrots is amazing, so Dean can go fork himself.
> 
> The chapter title comes from Ev'ry Time You Say Goodbye, a Cole Porter song.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from lyrics in the Stereophonics song "Feel", which I did not listen to while writing this and which has nothing to do with this fic, but titles aren't my strong suit and this was the first phrase to pop into my mind when I was trying to come up with a name for this.


End file.
